


Different

by Micte



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Middle Earth Setting, Angst, JA Secret Santa, Jupiter Ascending - Freeform, M/M, Middle Earth AU, ja secret santa summer 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:56:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Micte/pseuds/Micte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The difference between Caine and everybody else is how he makes the Prince feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this for the Jupiter Ascending Summer Secret Santa of 2016 and the prompt was: Middle Earth AU (Caine/Boromir?)
> 
> A tiny warning before anyone starts reading: im not that into TLOTR fandom (didnt read the books. did watch the films. i don't think i've ever even read fanfiction but... wth i just wrote one lol) so there might be certain inaccuracies but know that even thought i screamed WTF to my screen when i first saw the prompt, (followed by a fit of giggles) i was really happy coming up with a story for the ship :D 
> 
> So thanks for the challenge Vablatsky ! this was really fun and i hope you like your gift :) 
> 
> Happy Summer Ascendants !

She finds the boy looking down the tower’s balcony and in the noisy streets there is another little one, pale, and blond and dirty. His hands are shaky, probably of hunger or fear. The people passing by ignore the child’s silent suffering while the one by her side observes, completly lost in thought.

The difference between the young Prince and the wolf boy, from their status to the state of their clothing, is evident for everyone, but she decides this is a good moment for a lesson, and so she explains to her son:

“Nobody in Gondor would dare to approach any of you… but they ignore him because they are scared of what he is and they respect you because they love you for who you are.”

“I’m Denethor II’s son,” the boy says slowly, measuring his mother’s words before speaking “and he is…”

“The son of a beast,” she offers simply, saying the harsh words without any judgment; the truth as it is.

The boy’s eyebrows come together as he reflects on this. Then he finally takes his anguished eyes off the wolf boy, “But we kill beasts, don’t we mother?”

Is not exactly what he wants to ask but he doesn’t want his mother to believe he’s scared, or even worse, that he could be thinking about killing somebody. A beast. Another boy. A mix of both, bigger in body than his little brother but definitely the same age…

“We also show compassion for those orphaned by the battlefield.”

 

\---

 

His mother’s presence fades away with time but her words and what they mean are stuck in his head.

The Steward-Prince of Gondor and the Werewolf grow up in different worlds within the same Kingdom and they collide from time to time while training for the endless war against Sauron’s dark forces.

“One day, you’ll command this army,” Denethor II says proudly while he and his older son survey the hundreds of men perfecting the stroke of their blades.

The young boy stops when he sees the Werewolf blocking three simultaneous attacks with one wave of his shield.

“Your mother was wise when she asked to have his life spared,” says his father stopping by his side, watching the young warriors trying to win over the Werewolf, “the monster will make her request worth it in the battlefield.”

The words ‘monster’ and ‘beast’ echo in the young man’s head but they lose their meaning when one of the blades graces the Werewolf’s face. He winces away, shutting his eyes and the instructor that suggested the three-on-one practice orders for a pause.

The Steward-Prince can see the blood dripping down the Werewolf’s chin. Even mixed with sweat and dirt, it’s just as red as his.  

Then the future soldier opens his eyes and when blue and grey collide Boromir thinks of different words to define him:

Pain.

Human.

 

\---

 

“What’s your name, soldier?” asks Boromir. He’s talking to the Werewolf for the first time, high on courage after the audience with his father. The sun is fire, the wind is ice and the legions are resting before their departure.

“My name is Caine Wise,” the soldier speaks with a deep and curious voice. Boromir knows he’s not used to having anyone addressing him, and then the man adds a soft,  “your Highness.”

“Captain. I’ve just been named Captain,” corrects the young man, more eager than he intends to, but the Were…the man in front of him dips his head lightly, repressing what looks like the beginning of a smirk.

Boromir wants to say something else… something wise or clever but he’s mesmerized. He’s watched Caine from a distance for years and he’s never seen him show any kind of feeling to anyone, certainly not amusement.

“Captain,” repeats Caine, more confident this time, squaring his shoulders, and then he lifts his face to look the prince in the eye.

Boromir reminds himself that this was Denethor’s idea: **_Talk to the wolf man… be sure that he’ll rise his blade for us_ ** **,** said the father and now the son asks:

“Will you follow me into the battlefield, Caine Wise?”

 

_Will you follow me?_

(breath in)  

_No, not that._

(breath out)

_Will you fight for us?_

 

Will he notice that?

The beast… Caine Wise seems attentive to his Captain's gestures. It’s almost as if he were actually measuring him, considering his options. Almost as if he has a choice. 

Boromir has heard some rumors about the superior abilities granted by his blood (so different and yet as red as his) and he has seen some of them with his own grey eyes while training restlessly for combat.

 

_Can you smell my fear?_

(breath in)

_Can you listen to my heartbeat?_

(breath out)

 

Can he guess that in his father’s order, Boromir found the perfect excuse…?

“I’ll follow you to the doors of Mordor if you want me to,” says Caine solemnly but his lips twitch and the smirk becomes a lopsided smile that he tries to hide under a rushed vow.

He fails.

 

\---

 

The difference between Boromir and Caine is, for starters, physical.

Caine kills twice more orcs than Boromir and needs only half a night’s sleep to get back to it. He also eats three times a regular soldier’s ration, so he goes hunting for most of the night, and Boromir follows.

 

\---

 

The difference between Caine and everybody else is how he makes the Prince feel like there is no difference between them, and he doesn’t even know it.

Boromir knows there should be an urge deep inside his chest telling him to stay in the camp with the rest of his men, but he’s never feel the fear the people of Gondor claim to experience in Caine’s presence.

They walk side by side through the woods in silence for days, then weeks, and then Caine finally asks one night “Why?”. He wipes the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, while the dead prey lays in pieces by his feet, “Are you so scared I’ll turn on you that you have to follow me… personally?”

He’s voice is low and, Boromir would dare to say, even sad, but there’s a sting of sarcasm at the end of his question. The daily struggles have wore off the reverence to any title but Boromir can imagine how he’s got to this mislead conclusion about his intentions and he doesn’t blame the soldier for it.

“Is not like that,” the Prince answers calmly.

“Then how is it?” asks Caine, looking at him with the intensity he uses to stalk his prey and Boromir wonders if those poor animals felt the same shiver that’s running down his spine.

“I like being out here… in your company…” he says simply and he knows it’s not the best explanation because he can see in the way that Caine’s eyes narrow that he doesn’t quite believe his words.

In fact, if all these years of observation have taught him anything, he just pissed the soldier off.

“Don’t you get enough slaughter in the battlefield, your _Highness_?” his title comes out as a half livid and half mocking growl and Caine starts walking in his direction, stepping over the rests of his prey. Boromir knows that everything about him right now is dangerous, but he’s already spent years fascinated with the effects that instinct has on Caine’s demeanor to do anything but stare at him in awe. The soldier doesn’t stop until their chests are touching, but the Prince doesn’t even flinch, “or you follow me every night because you’re afraid I’ll betray you?” the accusation comes with a quick flex of Caine’s fingers, showing off bloody claws.

“I am not afraid,” Boromir answers, knowing his rising heartbeat is giving the wrong impression. He wants to explain more about what’s been going through his mind during all those years but he knows only how to talk to other royals to make alliances or how to give speeches to whole armies getting ready for battle…

Boromir still doesn’t know how to talk to _him_ alone, without all their differences pushing them apart; noise distorting his intention.

“You should be. Like everybody else!” the soldier finally screams and bears his fangs to the Prince.

“I’m not like everybody else.”

They have always been different and they would always be. Boromir knows it and Caine does too and so he growls angry and hurt, “me neither!” while pushing the Prince against a tree, well aware that this is wrong and he’s expecting to be insulted, or punched, or even stabbed by his Captain’s sword for his lack of respect and good judgment.

Instead there’s Boromir’s hand reaching out for his neck, caressing a full-healed scar for a moment, and then pulling him closer. Caine’s used to harsh words and cold stares; cuts and burns and long lasting bruises. A kiss on the lips is a foreign thing for him.

Boromir’s always wondered about what it would feel like to kiss Caine; a man like no one else he’s ever known. He’s never imagined the iron taste of blood, but the metallic feeling is inconsequential against what happens next. First, Caine’s paralyzed by the shock but Boromir’s hands and lips beckon him to let down his guard. The Prince is as slow as his long grown desire allows him to be, conscious of the fact that Caine has lacked any show of kindness in his life. When the soldier’s instinct finally kicks in, and he starts kissing him back, Boromir finds himself completely pressed between the tree and the soldier’s body. He lets his tongue feel the sharp end of Caine’s fangs and the softness of his tongue and then the moan he lets out brings Caine back to reality.

“Captain,” the soldier breaths breaking the kiss, but the Prince’s hands keep him in place.

“It’s Boromir,” he replies following the line of Caine’s jaw with his lips. He’s waited too long for this chance to just stop. He can’t.

“Your Highness,” Caine insists, trying half-heartedly to put some distance between them. His feet want to move back but his hands can’t seem to let go of Boromir’s shirt; his claws start tearing on the fabric.

“Caine!” Boromir stops his attentions to look at him. He’s watched him for years and he knows how fear looks when it crosses Caine’s blue eyes, “There’s no one else here.”

Caine’s eyes shine with understanding. He takes a deep breath and then nods, letting his forehead fall against Boromir’s. No more words are needed for the night.

Out here, away from Gondor and their enemies, there are no beasts, titles or responsabilities. Out here, finaly together, there is no difference between them.


End file.
